The Ghost
by frankiewode
Summary: When she leaves the inn, Branson begins to drown in his own agony. Her image is stuck to the front of his mind. How much longer is he expected to wait for what will never come?    *SPOILERS FOR 207*


The Ghost

**A/N:** There are so many unscripted scenes I want to see in Downton. _This_ being one of them. I pretty much died over the new episode ;_; She called him _TOM._ And I'm sorry but Sybil/Branson sleeping in the same room = Downton Abbey _porn_.

_Disclaimer: It's actually painful to write. But I will never own Allen Leech. Or his twitter. They are too quality._

* * *

><p>The door gave a soft click behind them and she was gone.<br>The black of night fell into the room. So close. But in the end she had left him.

The lamp she'd hurriedly switched on at her sister's approach flickered despondently. The sense of her... It was still here; within everything. She lingered in every object she had touched or admired; any object she had laughed at. The memory of a smile tugged at his lips. He'd been so unspeakably happy to see how fond she was of this room.  
><em>"It's just the right size,"<em> she'd said softly. Her smile had barely faltered since they had first driven away. He remembered the excitement they had felt in the first hour; the black of night at every turn, swallowing them up; exuberant faces as their eyes stuck to the headlights, carving a path to their future. Their hands clasped together as she sat up front for the very first time. How easily she slipped into his arms when he pulled her for a kiss.

She had wanted him to have the right side of the bed. "_It'll be alright if we're fully clothed,"_ she assured. _"You can sleep on top of the sheets; there'd be nothing wrong in it, I'm sure. I just think you'll be more comfortable."  
>"No, my love,"<em> he'd replied, pulling a soft blanket over the armchair. _"I don't trust myself."_ He'd smiled at the pink flush on her cheeks.

They had tried for a little while but neither of them could sleep. They spent hours in a drunken state of happiness; holding hands, touching faces, small kisses, few and far between, talking all the while.

It didn't feel _real_ now.  
>None of it... It was part of a dream.<p>

He was still standing in the spot she had left him. The very place she had reached up and pressed a desperate kiss in the hollow of his cheek; a promise... except now he was alone.

Unblinking he approached the small basin in the corner of the room to splash his face; to try and shock himself awake from the dream he had all too readily indulged in. The sight of his reflection was almost unbearable.

His face was bathed with an orange glow. The lamp. He had now come to think of it as _her_ lamp; the last thing she had touched. The flesh underneath his eyes was black from fatigue, his jaw was dark with stubble; but his eyes, oh his eyes. They were empty; shadowed by his brow. He was a shell compared to the man he had been just an hour ago; full of promise, full of dreams now shattered.

He should have seen it coming.  
>But the words she had spoken, the light caress of her glove on his cheek; it had all convinced him to shed his doubt eternally. He'd been over the moon.<p>

He splashed the basin suddenly and beads of water ran down his neck causing his shirt to cling at the collar. Relief. Cold glorious relief. But his heart still burned with the fever of it.

He felt his body begin to sag. An hour ago he could have done anything. He could have driven all night, walked to London, swam across the channel. Now he could barely muster up the energy to crawl beneath the blanket on the bed. He groaned when he felt how warm she had left it. He buried his head between the pillows and vaguely remembered he was still dressed. Not that it really mattered.

Her scent had seeped into the sheets and suddenly she was all around him once more. It felt almost wrong to envelope himself in her warmth; bask in all she had left here. But he'd had it with that aristocratic view of propriety. Pretentious bastards. They did the same as the common folk all-right. They just had the luxury of being able to afford a lock on the door; masking their secrets. Not Sybil though. Sybil was different. She wasn't one of them.

He wanted to break free of this world and he had thought she was with him. He sighed ruefully and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. Maybe he could have been better off back in Ireland with the girl his mother had always wanted him to marry. What was her name? Ah. Rosy cheeked Caitlin. At least he'd be fighting.  
><em>No... No,<em> he thought. _Better off maybe, but not happy. I'd never be happy with anyone else..._

He had to trust her. Trust that she would stay true like she had promised. Trust that it was only a set-back in their plans.

He wouldn't cry.  
>Not even as the shiver crept into his bones.<p>

_I'll dream of her tonight _, he thought morosely.

And he did.  
>Black ribbons encircled him, painted the sky until suddenly she came out of the smoke.<br>She put her cold hands in his and held them against her heart.

"_Just a little longer_," she said. _"Trust me."_

And he did.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I am deprived of sleep. so. ignore this strangeness. Oh, and even though Sybil promised she would be true to him, it _did_ take her five years to decide if she wanted to be with him. It's understandable that he'd be a little on edge and unbelieving. So that's why I wrote it this way.

Hope you enjoy!

Oh and if you do, I would be ever so grateful if you left some feedback. \^-^"


End file.
